Went to the doctor and guess what he told me, guess what he told me? He said, “Girl you gotta try to have fun no matter what you do,” but he’s a fool….
I am disheartened. Totally, completely disheartened. My anxiety has really been getting to me for about a month and the social anxiety is kicking me in the stomach. I can barely articulate it. I’m intimidated by my psychiatrist, little and unthreatening, but I’m afraid of saying too much. Something that will make her say go to the doctor. Something that will make her say, “Tsk, tsk. Sick little puppy.” I am afraid of her receptionist, a hateful British woman who demands payment before services rendered, as though she expects me to try to sneak out without paying, as though she’s saying, White trash.
” I think I need my meds adjusted” I say. But I’m already on the maximum dose for Luvox, 300 mg., and she doesn’t want to increase the drug more. I understand this, but I hoped she would be able to let me take more or something.
She asks me if the Wellbutrin could be making me more nervous. I say no fast. The Wellbutrin keeps me from being ‘spayed’ by the Luvox. You might ask why would a woman who couldn’t give it away at San Quentin would want to feel erotic feelings. Doesn’t it just remind me that I’m not desirable? Well, I have a secret boyfriend. B.o.b. is down for anything when I like as long as I keep him supplied with 2 AA batteries. Doc Johnson introduced us at Spencer’s in the mall for $12.95 and I won’t give him up!
That’s too much information. Let’s move on.
The psychiatrist asks if I feel hopelessness. Not always but often.
How’s my mood? I was really depressed for a while, but it’s better now. While I’m not exactly ecstatic, I’m ok.
“Any suicidal thoughts?” She asks me this twice during the 15 minute session.
“No.” But I wouldn’t tell you if I did even though I like you.
Suicide is something I wouldn’t do, I know. I will wish I’m dead at times or that my sorry self was never born, but to actually act on these thoughts isn’t something I’m keen on doing. I do have some hope somewhere, I just misplace it sometimes. I want to live if only to spite Ms. Pink Pig, and I want to live just in case I surprise myself and find a purpose. Plus I’m not that selfish and I analyze the reasons I HAVE TO live. My mother would be devastated, because she and I have not gone more than 24 hours without at least talking to each other on the phone. She’s fairly dependent on me in her own way. We are symbiotic.
My soul father (my favorite professor in college), not my biological dad who is dead and I never knew, would be sorry if I exited the stage even though we seldom see each other. He’s a sensitive person and I’m sure it would bother him a lot.
My best friend might need me. She has a huge circle of friends, but still, she might need me.
Someone else I know or am friends with might be sad or need me. At least I hope that I might be needed by someone.
It’s unfair to throw my life away when so many young people who die too soon from illness or misadventure didn’t have the chance to grow old.
What if the evil God that I learned about in kindergarten is how it all really is and I’m banished to eternal damnation? I doubt it’s really how it is, but my early beliefs are still hidden in my psyche somewhere and I’m awaiting punishment. It is totally against normal human nature to destroy oneself, so how would a just God banish to hell someone not thinking straight?
Even if I killed myself all neatly, pills so that I seem only asleep, wouldn’t that still weird someone out to find me even if I’m unknown to that person? Or worse, what if no one found me and my mom never knew what happened to me?
Even cremation is expensive. I’d hate to cost a lot.
Etc. & so forth…so no, suicide is something I won’t do.
The psychiatrist tells me to keep taking Ativan as needed, to eat regularly since my mood worsens when I’m hungry, and work on my anxiety with my therapist.
“See you in two months,” she says cheerfully.
I’m depressed. I’m angry. And where is the hopelessness? Oh yay, there it is!
“I’m going to be like this forever,” I tell my mother. All the anxiety. All the timidity. All the anger for not being perfect or at least normal. I am nothing. Forever.
You can do this, Lisa. You HAVE TO do this. You can’t be this way forever. You have to will yourself out of this. I tell myself I will do better. You will look people in the eye at least once per interaction. You’re a person too, no less than they are, simply for being a human you are no less of a person. All people have worth, even you, Lisa.
I decide I will try to be as optimistic as Candide after I have a nap with one of my cats.